


Different Ways to Come Back

by CupcakeGirlA



Category: Olympics RPF, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupcakeGirlA/pseuds/CupcakeGirlA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan misses Michael with an ache he can’t adequately describe. He’s gotten good at pretending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different Ways to Come Back

**Author's Note:**

> All missesbean’s fault. No lie. Inspired by this picture: http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mb9diikjfI1qlxzewo1_500.png I paid her back by making her read this before posting. Yay for grammar checks and fixing my misspelled names! Thanks, hon.

Ryan flexes his hips up into the body pressing down against him. He spreads his thighs wider, adding a hitch to the motion of his hips that has the dick inside him sliding that much deeper, filling him that much further, faster. Pressing harder. Ryan’s hands scramble for purchase, sliding down, learning and relearning the play of muscle over bone. A body in motion. It’s different from swimming, more primal than the strictly controlled movements of a perfect stroke. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, moaning, and letting himself just feel. The body above him is familiar enough. Long back, long arms, broad shoulders, small hips. He’s bigger than Ryan, longer and wider, but not heavier. His waist is smaller, his muscles more defined. His skin not as tan, but still golden from a summer of outside training, and the week of prep during World Champs official team training camp. 

Ryan blinks his eyes open, sweat stinging them at the corners, his eyes focusing blearily on one small thing at a time, a clear patch of skin, the curve of a shoulder, the sharply cut line of a collarbone, a shock of thick dark hair. He arches up, hands scrambling, and eyes falling shut. If he doesn’t look too much, if he keeps his hands on shoulders and arms, he can forget. One sense memory taking over for the others, and letting him pretend. He moans low and harsh, the heat rising through him. His muscles tense, sweat dripping down the line of his back, as he yanks the body above him closer. One hand slides into the thick hair on the back of a head, Ryan’s legs locking around the hips pushing into him in a fast hard pace. Lost in the memory, he shouts as he comes, words flying out of his mouth, free of conscience control. The hips flexing and rolling against his, stutter once than speed up and Ryan’s ears fill with a deep groan that has Ryan flying back into his own head. He tenses and then immediately forces himself to relax. It won’t do any good to yank away. Not now that it’s all done and over. 

Nathan pulls away, mouth hovering over Ryan’s for a moment, breath warm and moist blowing across Ryan’s lips, before he stands up, leaving the bed completely. Ryan keeps his eyes closed, even as he stretches and flexes against the hotel sheets. He’s going for nonchalant. He’s not sure if it’s working. Nathan stands up from the bed, moving toward the bathroom, all without saying a word. Ryan blinks his eyes open to stare at the white washed ceiling. His lower back is sore, and his thighs ache. He’s glad this week of wrong wrong wrong is almost over. 

It was harder, than he’d imagined it was going to be, coming to World Championships without Mike. Hard not seeing him at the team functions, not rooming with him. Not wasting away hours with spades tournaments and dirty good sex, where they fought so hard to not leave a mark, to not make too much sound. There was Cullen, and Conor, and the rest of the guys on the team. Plenty of people to hang out with, to fight with over Rap lyrics and watch movies with late at night, too many bodies piled onto couches, and spread across floors, the whole room reeking of chlorine and sweaty male None of it should feel so wrong, so off. Mike was just one guy. But Michael Phelps had always been more than just another guy. More than just another swimmer. Ryan sighs, scratching his belly where his own come was starting to itch as it dried. He sits up, sliding fingers through his hair. He should start getting used to it. He had plenty of swimming meets left in him. And Mike was adamant that he was never coming back. 

Nathan exits the bathroom looking pink in places where he’s scrubbed himself clean. His face is flushed, his hair dripping around the edges. He bends down, still oddly silent, as he finds his clothes. 

“Dude, you don’t have to come and run. You’re welcome to stay. It comes with the territory,” Ryan says, jumping out of the bed, and bounding toward the bathroom. Nathan’s voice halts him in place. 

“I’m not feeling particularly welcomed,” Nathan says, yanking on his cargo shorts, and tugging them up his long legs, legs longer than Michael’s, Ryan’s mind supplies. He shakes it focusing on the expression on Nathan’s face. He watches as Nathan stuffs his boxers into his shorts pocket, wiggling his toes into his flip-flops, long hands turning his t-shirt back right-side out. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Ryan asks, leaning in the doorframe to the bathroom, completely calm and collected even while completely naked. He crosses his arms over his chest, giving Nathan a look of confusion. Nathan rolls his tongue in his cheek, tugging the shirt down over his head and threading first one long gangly arm through and then the other. He stands up, grabbing his wallet and room key off the table by the bed. He jabs them into his pocket and Ryan catches on. Nathan is pissed. “Nate, man, why are you so pissed? You’d think a good orgasm would make you more relaxed, not less,” he teases. 

“Maybe,” Nathan says, hands in his pockets, head hanging down, looking every bit of his 23 years. Ryan suddenly feels positively old. “Maybe I would be relaxed and happy, and I might even have stayed for another go. But well that’s a little hard under the circumstances,” he looks up then, brown eyes drilling into Ryan’s with an anger Ryan had never seen in them before. It makes him straighten, his brow furrowing, and his hands dropping to rest at his sides. Nathan steps closer. “He isn’t coming back. We’re all having to get used to that, but pretending isn’t going to make it any easier,” he says, voice strangely soft. Ryan watches the anger leech out of Nathan’s face. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ryan asks, feeling defensive. Nathan smiles at him, just a tad sadly. 

“We all miss him, and it makes sense that you would too, maybe even more than the rest of us. But don’t use me as a replacement Ryan, I thought we were friends? I deserve better,” he shakes his head, turning away. Ryan watches him go, feeling cold and shaky. Nathan reaches for the door, but turns at the last minute shoulders slumped. “You called out his name,” he says, voice steady. Ryan blinks at him. “You said you loved him and you called out his name,” he explains. Ryan feels himself go pale, and reaches out to grip the wall to steady himself. “Don’t be an idiot, Ry. If you love the asshole, just tell him,” he explains, opening the door and leaving without waiting for a reply. Ryan leans his body weight against the solid wall, letting himself slide down to sit on the carpeted floor. 

“Fuck.”

Ryan’s suddenly very glad he doesn’t have any races the next day. He barely gets any sleep that night. 

 

The last day of World Championships is finally upon them. Ryan gets up and goes to morning practice and then prepares to sit in the stands cheering on Team USA all through the afternoon session. He knows he’s being weird. Quiet and very un-Reezy-like. But he can’t help it. All he can think about is Michael. And how Michael isn’t there. How he’s back in the states, in Baltimore, with her. 

Ryan doesn’t begrudge Mike his happiness, if he really is happy… But he can’t help but feel like when Michael quit the pool, that he also quit Ryan. And his shacking up with Megan, was kind of a slap in the face. 

He eventually tells himself to grow a pair and to stop acting like a dejected teenage girl. They had never been together. Michael had never been his boyfriend, just his friend... who he fucked around with. A lot. For 8 years. He definitely is not heartbroken over the ending of something that had never really existed. He isn’t. He tilts his face up into the sun, eyes closed behind his Gucci sunglasses, and face warming from the mid-morning sun. The other members of the US team had quickly interpreted his mood and were keeping their distance. Even Conor and Cullen had given up on trying to get him out of his funk. It had only taken half the day of getting no more than single word answers, and weary eye-rolls before Cullen threw his hands up in the air, and walked away muttering under his breath about Ryan “suddenly making all emo and shit.” That had actually gotten Ryan to smile, but Cullen hadn’t seen it, and it hadn’t lasted long. So he sits in the stands with a space around him, where all of his friends would usually be, but aren’t. It’s the start of the men’s 1500m free, and Ryan shuts his eyes, letting himself zone out. 

So he only barely registers when someone sits down next to him, close but not touching him. He keeps his eyes closed, intent on ignoring whoever has breached his self-made circle of solitude. But that plan abruptly ends when the person, whoever they are, calmly and deliberately bumps their bony, hairy, knee against Ryan’s. His eyes fly open, intending to glare at whoever it is who has interrupted his sunbathing. But the glare only half forms on his face before falling away, because it’s Michael. Real and in the flesh. 

“Hey,” Mike says with a slow deliberate smile. Ryan turns away, focusing instead his eyes on Connor, (Jaeger, not Dwyer) cutting through the water, halfway through his 1500 meters. 

“Hey,” he replies, leaning forward, shoulders tense. 

“Sorry I didn’t get to see you swim, I meant to get here at the start of the week but I, umm,” he trails off, frowning, and Ryan rolls his eyes behind his glasses. 

“I’m sure you were busy. S’not a big deal, man. You’ve been busy a lot lately,” Ryan replies. Michael’s silent for another lap and a half. 

“About that. I’ve kind of been a jackass,” Mike says quietly. “You know, since London. I know sorry doesn’t really cover it, but I am… sorry. You know… for not being around more, or at all really.” It’s said so awkwardly, and it’s just so Michael, that Ryan has to clamp his jaw shut to stop a smile from forming. He doesn’t reply, and he enjoys the way Michael shifts next to him, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on his knees. “Ryan? Are you even listening?” he asks. 

“Yeah, I’m listening,” Ryan says. “Haven’t heard anything that really required like a legit answer though.” He shrugs his shoulders, and checks the scoreboard. Three more laps for Connor and he’s pretty close to the lead. 

“Did you miss me?” Michael asks. Ryan snaps his head round to look at him. 

“Dude! Did you really just ask me if I missed you? What kind of fucked up question is that?” he asks, turning back to the pool. He hears whispers break out behind them and ignores them. 

“Yes I did. Because I’m not feeling the love right now,” Mike says back. Ryan feels his face flush. 

“How am I supposed to answer? Yeah I missed you like crazy? Or Nah, I haven’t missed you at all. Or maybe, nothing’s fucking the same without you. There’s like a giant fucking hole in the team where you’re supposed to be, and we don’t even get to like hang out with you at all anymore, because you’re always off with your girlfriend, makin’ like you’re soo in love with her, when I know you secretly you like takin’ it up the ass as much as the next bi-guy. But that’s ok because you’re Michael fucking Phelps, and you get to make the rules. And if you want to live a lie, well it’s ok because you’re the Greatest of All Time, yo! And we should just be cool with what you choose to give us. No matter if it’s unfair, or complicated, or so selfishly one-sided, that we get no say in jack shit.” Ryan snaps back. Mike blinks at him a little stupidly. And then the crowd around them erupts in cheers and Ryan’s head snaps back to the pool. It’s the last lap and Connor’s in second behind Yang Sun. Ryan’s on his feet and screaming so hard, that he almost, almost, forgets Michael is there beside him, cheering on Connor too. He wins silver. 

Ryan slumps back down into his seat, all of the energy leaving him as the wet swimmers file back into the locker room, red with exertion and still breathing heavily. Mike sits down beside him again and they watch in silence as the women come out to race the 50 free. Ryan tugs his sunglasses off and turns to look at Mike, only to find the other man’s eyes focused directly on the side of his face. Ryan purses his lips in thought, and the corner of Mike’s mouth tips up in a half smile. 

“I think we need to talk,” Ryan says softly, looking back at the pool. “In private,” he adds. He sees Michael nod out of the corner of his eye and feels his shoulders relax in reaction. 

“I think that’s probably a good idea,” Michael answers. 

After the women’s 50 Free they watch the Men’s Medley Relay. There’s Matt to swim back, Eric for breaststroke, Tyler McGill to swim butterfly, and Nathan swimming free. Ryan screams his head off throughout the entire race, which they win, it’s only afterward that he notices the look on Michael’s face. Even as he’s shouting and cheering, his hands in the air, and face turning red, his eyes are sort of turning glassy. Ryan doesn’t say anything. 

Later Michael hitches a ride to the hotel on the athlete bus. It’s completely against the rules, but no one is about to say no to Michael Phelps. Bob’s face lights up when Michael comes ambling toward him, and they greet each other with a backslapping hug. Everyone is excited to see him, greeting him like he’s a long lost friend. Which he sort of is. Allison jumps on his back and makes him carry her piggy back to the bus. Nathan gives him a hug, before giving Ryan a careful look. It says a lot, that look, and Ryan has to break away, watching Missy jump up and down as she wraps her long arms around Michael. She’s grown another 2 inches, and Mike teases her mercilessly about being the weed of the swimming team. 

Ryan ends up sitting in the front of the bus, with Cullen tucked into the seat next to him, Mike getting passed from bench to bench for the 20 minute drive back to their hotel. He spends the first five minutes ignoring the looks Cullen is shooting him and eavesdropping on Mike’s conversations as he catches up with all his old friends, before he can’t take it anymore. He ends up shoving his earbuds in, and cranking his iPod. He is not about to obsess over Michael fucking Phelps, because the other man isn’t paying him enough attention. When they get to the hotel, Ryan and Cullen are some of the first guys off the bus. Cullen waves goodbye, as he heads off with Conor (Dwyer, not Jaeger) for an early dinner, taking most of the Gator and North Carolina contingents with them. Ryan just shakes his head and beelines it straight to the elevators. He pointedly does not look around for Michael. 

However, he’s not surprised when 5 minutes after he gets to his room, and dumps his stuff, there’s a knock on the door. It’s Michael, of course it is, and he’s looking sheepish, and almost shy. 

“So talking?” Ryan asks, letting him inside. But apparently Mike has other plans. His fists curl into Ryan’s t-shirt and he swings him around. Ryan lets out a little grunt as his back impacts the wall. The sound is cut short when Mike’s mouth meets his. 

And oh it’s a good kiss. Michael’s mouth is like made for kissing. Kissing and blow jobs, but right now Ryan is focused on the kissing, because Michael’s tongue is diving deep into Ryan’s mouth, and his teeth are nipping at Ryan’s lips, when he pulls back to take a gasping breath. Ryan’s hands scramble to pull up Michael’s t-shirt, delving under the offending cotton to touch skin, skin, glorious skin. 

And it’s all so familiar. The way Michael’s taller than him, longer everywhere, but his legs. How he makes Ryan feel small, even when Ryan is broader in the chest and the hips. How Michael’s hands are huge on his back, sliding down under shorts and boxers to cup the swell of Ryan’s ass, and up under his shirt to scratch across a shoulder blade. How his fingers press and squeeze, and seem almost to take possession of Ryan’s body. Like it’s his to take as he pleases. He kisses with his head at the perfect angle. And it’s hot and wet without being sloppy or gross. How he knows exactly how long to kiss Ryan, before breaking so they can both breathe. It’s something Ryan has noticed in his 28 years on this planet that swimmers can kiss longer than non-swimmers. It’s probably something having to do with breath control and lung capacity, a trained ability to keep moving and thinking even while your brain is being deprived of oxygen. After all these years he and Mike have kissing down to a science. 

Mike pushes at his shorts, gets them down off Ryan’s hips far enough that gravity pulls them the rest of the way off and they fall to puddle around his bare feet. And Ryan groans, breaking the kiss to cry out, Michal’s hand curling around his erection like salvation. 

His grip is tight, and welcome, and fuck it’s good, as he starts to pull. Ryan keens, surging up to take Michael’s mouth again. His hands scramble to yank at Michal’s clothes. He wants him naked now. Right fucking now. He unbuckles Michael’s belt, panting against his mouth, even as his cargo pants fall away from his hips. His underwear follow a few seconds later, and Michael lets out a low guttural sound when Ryan’s hand closes around his dick. 

“Fuck,” Michael grunts, his forehead pressing to Ryan’s, and Ryan’s eyes fall open. He doesn’t want them closed. Not for a moment of this. Not when it’s Michael. Ryan slides his fist down Michael’s erection, and it’s hard, leaking already under his grip. The precum makes him sticky slippery, and helps his hand move faster. He twists his wrists, yanking hard and tight just the way Michael loves best, and Michael cries out, his face flushing with pleasure and heat. His eyes are closed, and Ryan doesn’t want that. He wants Michael’s eyes, his attention, his focus on him, just him. 

“Look at me,” he says and it sounds desperate. It is desperate. He’s close already, his hips pumping forward into Michael’s grip in a continuous rocking motion that will get him off faster than not. Michael shifts closer, shifting his grip on Ryan’s erection, and flexing his body forward on each downward slide of Ryan’s hand on his cock. “Look at me!” Ryan demands. Michael’s eyes fly open at the words, his eyes locking on Ryan’s in the half light of the setting sun, streaming through the hotel window. Ryan gasps, bucking forward into Michael’s fist, his free hand sliding up Michael’s back under the t-shirt he’s still wearing, to close around the back of Michael’s neck. His t-shirt bunches up under his arm pits, and if Ryan was thinking rationally he’d probably find the look hilarious, but for now it’s just hot, Michael’s torso naked and flexing. He pulls Michael closer by the grip on the nape of his neck, their faces nearly colliding at the sudden movement. “Mike,” he whispers, voice gone hoarse with pleasure and something else, some emotion he doesn’t want to pin down right now. Michael smirks, his cheeks rosy and sweat sliding down from under his hairline. 

“Come on,” he says, mouth hovering over Ryan’s, both of them panting for air. Ryan’s so close he can practically taste the coming orgasm. His brow furrows but he refuses to close his eyes. He doesn’t want to miss any of this. Not a second of it. “Ry,” Mike groans, his hips stuttering forward and Ryan knows he’s going to come, that he is coming. Mike lets out a sound like he’s dying, his balls pulling up, and the hand he still has planted on Ryan’s ass, squeezing so tight he’s probably leaving bruises. He cries out, his cum spurting out between them, streaking both their groins and stomachs and chests with stripes of white. Ryan hiccups with second hand pleasure, the hand fisting Michael’s dick, squeezing it, milking the last of his orgasm out of it. Michael goes pliant, and loose against him, but only for a few seconds, before he pulls himself back upright, his hand moving again, with determination on Ryan’s dick, sliding and twisting just how he knows Ryan loves best. And Ryan’s so close. He tilts his head back against the hotel room wall, his eyes sliding closed. He lets go of Mike’s dick, his sticky hand sliding off and around to grip Michael’s hip. He pulls Michael closer with both hands. 

“Mike,” he gasps, voice raspy, and pleading. 

“Now, Ry, fucking, come on!” Mike says, and it’s a demand. He presses his forehead to Ryan’s temple, lips ghosting down the side of Ryan’s face to bite at his jaw bone. “Come, Ry,” he says, and Ryan’s eyes close without his permission, his hips jumping forward into Mike’s grip, all the muscles in his body flexing in preparation. Michael presses a kiss to the side of Ryan’s neck, and flicks his thumb across the slit of Ryan’s cock. “I love you,” he hisses in Ryan’s ear, and Ryan’s whole body locks up and he comes. He comes harder and longer than he ever has before, so hard he literally blacks out. 

He comes to slumped on the floor, Michael sitting astride his thighs, hand moving gently on Ryan’s over-sensitized dick, and mouth pressing small soft kisses across Ryan’s forehead, down his temple, across his cheekbones, and over the bridge of his nose. Little explosions of light and pleasure are still burning through Ryan in happy little waves, and he bats Michael’s hand away, hips twitching in continued aftershocks. He blinks at Michael, eyes half lidded and confused. Michael stares at him cautiously, but doesn’t say a word. His mouth moves down, pressing here and there until he reaches Ryan’s mouth. He gives him a real kiss then, lips firm and tongue tasting. Ryan opens to him, it’s like a reflex, he can’t stop himself. The kiss is slow, lazy, and warm, and it makes some ache in Ryan’s chest he hasn’t noticed before ease up just a little. After a minute or two, Michael pulls back, emotions warring across his face. 

“Ry,” he says hesitantly. Ryan blinks at him again. 

“Did you say, what I think you said?” Ryan asks softly. Michael nods. “Why?” Michael frowns. 

“I needed you to know,” Michael sits back, his weight resting on Ryan’s legs more fully, and Ryan misses his warmth against his chest as soon as he’s gone. 

“You have a girlfriend,” Ryan says, and it should sound angry, jealous, bitter. Instead he just sounds tired and confused, and maybe a little scared. 

“I broke up with her,” Michael explains. “It’s why I didn’t get here until today. She kept putting off moving out, and finally I had to tell her to pack her shit and get out, or she would come back one day and find I’d done it for her. Didn’t trust her in the condo while I was out of the country, with as pissed as she was, so I had to stay until she was gone. Had the locks and codes changed, the morning I flew out.” Ryan stares at him. 

“You kicked her out? Broke up with her?” he asks. Michael nods. 

“Yes,” Michael replies. Ryan flinches. 

“So this is some kind of rebound fuck? Or you figured since she was out of the picture, I would just be waiting to pick things back up again?” he says, and it’s an accusation. Michael shakes his head. 

“No, Ryan. It’s not like that!” he objects. 

“Then how is it like?” 

“She was no good for me, Ryan. I had enough of all the bullshit. She was using me. She had been using me this entire time. She was cheating on me, parading me around like her sugar daddy. You aren’t the second choice. I left her because of you,” Michael explains. 

“Sounds to me like you were leaving her because she was a cheating bitch,” Ryan replies. Michael shakes his head. 

“No, I put up with her being a cheating bitch for months, because I…” he trials off. Ryan frowns at him. 

“Explain Michael, or better yet, get off of me. My ass is going to go to sleep,” he says. Michael flinches at the words or the tone, probably both. He shifts off Ryan to sit across from him in the little entrance way, their legs still tangled together. Ryan shifts, adjusting his position, but making no move to get up. 

“I was putting up with her bullshit, because it was safer than the alternative,” Michael explains. 

“Having a lying, cheating, gold digger that you couldn’t trust in your home and your bed for months was safer that not having her there?” he eyes Michael dubiously. “Dude, I’m too tired for this shit. Can you just tell me what this has to do with me?” 

“It has everything to do with you. The thing with Megan was over practically before it began. It was a reaction. Everything was changing, ending. Swimming. My career. The entire structure of my life, and I felt like I was losing everything all at once. She was something new. A distraction from it all. But I knew it was wrong. It was a few months ago that I knew it was really over, but I couldn’t end it. Not then. Because I knew what I would do,” Mike says, and he can’t look at Ryan. “I knew I would come to you. Because you’re…” he pauses searching for the right words. “You’re everything. And I know how that sounds. How ridiculous it is. But it’s true. I knew without her keeping me occupied, I’d have nothing stopping me from coming to you.” 

“I don’t get it,” Ryan says. Michael smiles than, just a little. 

“I’m in love with you, Ryan. I always have been, but we were competitors and friends. And yeah, we fucked around, but too many emotions would have ruined everything. So I never told you. I never even admitted it to myself. I just kept it locked up, and then London happened, and I freaked out. What if you didn’t feel the same way? I was practically acting like a teenage girl, Ryan, and I latched onto the first thing I could find that wasn’t you to keep myself from losing you, only that’s exactly what I ended up doing in the end, it just took longer.” Ryan blinks at him, jaw hanging open, not sure what to say. Michael stares awkwardly, waiting for a response. 

“You are a fucking idiot,” he says lowly, watching confusion sweep over Mike’s face. 

“What?” Michael asks. 

“You are. And a coward. But it’s ok. It all worked out in the end,” Ryan replies. Michael’s confusion is obvious. 

“It did?” he asks. 

“You’re here now aren’t you?” Ryan asks. And it’s sappy and mushy, completely fucking cliché, but it’s also true. 

“Yeah?” Michael asks, grinning widely. 

“Jeah,” Ryan says back, pushing up onto his knees and shuffling forward to sit across Michael’s bare thighs. His hands go to tug on Michael’s t-shirt, pulling it off over his head. His follows a moment later, and Ryan pushes forward until they are pressed skin to skin from chest to thigh. 

“Jeah,” Michael echoes. 

“Enjoy it now, because, dude you have like a whole year of being fucking miserable to make up for. You can start with a good morning blow job and an apology. But that can wait until later. For now, make up sex...” 

“Don’t you have to be together in order for you to break up and then make up?” Michael questions. 

“Dude, we totally were together. You were just in denial,” Ryan explains. Michael thinks a minute. 

“Really?” Ryan nods. 

“So, make up sex?” he prompts. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Michael replies, yanking Ryan’s hips into his, their dicks, already half hard pressing together. “You make awesome plans,” Michael whispers, licking up the length of Ryan’s throat. He tastes like sun and chlorine, and cologne. 

“I do. People should listen to me more often,” Ryan replies, hands gripping Michael’s face to bring his mouth to Ryan’s in another deep kiss. 

No more talking was really necessary.


End file.
